Jeff Bagato

Poetry

 

 

Two Pages in the Book of Death

 

1. It’s a blank

 

 a    blank

               a blank

 

a    blank

 

isn’t it true that blanks

also can kill?

 

You feel them going in just

the same, shots by a man

with a soft pistol,

eyes full of hate

 

2. damaged also in the crash,

flung in one direction

with blood streaming into my eyes,

and another’s arms broken

awkwardly at his sides,

 

the driver we never saw

again, thrown upward

against the steps face down

in his own last words

and substances,

fortunate not to see his face

 

I make the sign of the mal

occhio—stand back

away with traffic noises,

the ego shell outlying in

angry music and cheap smoke;

away the mass wishes

for failure

 

failure on all sides,

blood streaming into my eyes,

this malaise retreats

and attacks with pulsations

of the sign

 

In death, hold the mal occhio

to your breast,

even as you pay the boatman;

he would deliver you to

the wrong womb, the false

river bank of the damned

on orders of another’s coin

 

shooting blanks with your

fingers, you suffer the course

 

our car incinerated as a reminder of hell

 

 

 

The Subway

 

Kali stands by, Mercury

stands by, as I open the door

to underground culture

 

The separation of death—on the

other side, Pluto stands by,

the corpulent one—

Death grown fat with ease

 

They are reading what I did

in an old paper and it leaves

their faces blank and that

disgusts me

 

The train was truly silent

moving—the scream of acceleration

comes from empty heads

like conch shells at the ear

echoing blood—the heads

picking up slight motor

noise for broadcast

 

When I stand, I brace myself

for a fall against the movement

 

In coats people hide themselves,

larger than themselves, in death

 

Can’t bear hearing that story again

 

I steal a cigar and

move up on the escalator

smoking

 

Mercury runs forward

with a prescription of god,

the wastebasket I pass

behind him is full of them

 

Dreams are better than

life and cannot be seen

on television therefore

 

 

 

The Great Thief

 

When it’s certain it’s all

over, Captain William Fly, pirate,

cuts his last caper with a bunch

of flowers in his hands at the neck

of the gallows—

               This do

in remembrance of me—

 

if an extension

of the life of crime

is available only to cowards, then

weep, my lions,

for flowers cannot

protect you from the rope

 

when the rope

comes, take it

with every trick

you have—jive moves

improve the citizen’s memory

by the vehicle of anger

and outrage—

this is Bagato’s advice

on an early fall, or

a late one.

 

But if the trial is slated, then hold

capers galore, for often the jury

can rule on some unseen

evidence and suddenly you

are free—an impression of innocence

facilitated by mimic

of their white way of sincere

apology and remorse—I

give you no answers—

just to cut capers

in your day to a minimum

or to that level always up

to escape, as the great

thief lives not in his spoils

but from them—

 

when teaching, the invisible man

uses as heuristic repetition

of his crimes

unto the ripe ages—

a best metaphysics

of war and sly

inner pocketry

 

 

 

Djinnie in the Rain

 

So genie, they could have you

when they called, but now

have batteries and visions of metal

rings from the sky bearing

those who have been here and understand;

the angels died and became bug eyed men

 

unemployed, to sit on the stairs

and throw rocks to the street,

could you do advertising or

phoning sales

 

this rain like demons in

the back of the throat

 

Genie, would you come

if remembered

 

accept this work and smile

for the cameras—“I remember

Aladdin as a boy

and he was no conqueror—

I taught him everything

he knew”—

         and sell

the story

 

Give me the camera,

I want

to make my own movie,

 

this one about putting

nothing in vacant

lots

 

you are called

to lift this asphalt

and instead pave man’s head,

we should rise up

now that it’s raining—

like Sunday morning

this is a day of inattention

and demise

feels near

 

the guns won’t fire so well

and you’ll have less

bullets to catch,

I’m sure you’re not

so quick now

 

rain runs down the curb

with an ocean of cigarette butts

and a dead smell of concrete,

the motion a wave

of longing for the sewers

 

down here, it never

rains and genie, you

never have to die

 

tear out these pipes

for an earful—their prayers—

and focus on earthy

gods

A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music, glitch video, sticker art, and pop surrealism paintings. Some of his poetry has appeared in DM du Jour, Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, In Between Hangovers, Otoliths, Your One Phone Call, and Zoomoozophone Review. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry), Cthulhu Limericks (poetry), The Toothpick Fairy (fiction), and Dishwasher on Mars (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at http://jeffbagato.wordpress.com.